Of Housewives and Leather
by Alias III
Summary: HGDM A day in the lives of Hermione and Draco, twelve years after Hogwarts. Response to the Unforgivable Cliches challege trying to make housewife!Hermione and leatherpants!Draco vaguely believable.


Everyone had worried that she would never recover from the psychological trauma. She smirked, then leveled off the cup of flour with a knife blade. They were sure the end of the war would haunt her for the rest of her life. Ah, not that much sugar; don't want the children's teeth to rot. It was true that the gory, mangled faces still hung in her mind. She couldn't really smirk about that. But she had shown them what she could do by her own brain and will power. Twelve years, and the nightmares were nearly gone. Oh, not enough milk. Twelve years, and she was happily married with three beautiful children who cleaned their rooms, one cat, two dogs, four owls, a spotless, odor-free house, and a near-perfect scone recipe to show for it. Well, there were a few other details, like three published books (one fiction, one memoir, one guide to raising the best family in wizarding or Muggle Britain), two non-profit organizations, support for three independent periodicals, and a weekly column in the Daily Prophet that tended to hint at how much that particular rag needed to be burned in the streets.

Hermione smirked again. The oven chimed, and she placed the first tray of scones in to bake. While she waited, she sat down to work on next year's budget for SPEW, which had recently gone international. The French had a habit of not speaking English when she dealt with them, and she'd got strong support in the United States, but that strong support clashed unendingly with strong resistance, much of which seemed always to have God on its side. The Canadians had freed most of their Elves decades ago, and the Germans were impossible to talk to without a shouting match, regardless of whether or not they supported SPEW. It was all very vexing.

She heard footsteps on the stairs before a blonde head poked round the corner. "Mum?"

Hermione put down her quill and smiled at her eldest daughter. "Yes, Minerva?"

"I can't find my gloves. I've looked twice on the hook by my uniform and three times by my boots. I checked my broom, my desk, dresser drawers, under my bed, and all of my bookshelves. I even asked Damien and Mercutio."

"Ah, now that would be because I rescued them from Feste this morning. They're on the coat rack, out of his reach."

"How did he get them? I closed my door when I came down to breakfast."

"Have you done anything to annoy your brothers?"

Minerva took a sudden interest in a butterfly on the window screen. "Why would you ask a thing like that? I'm a responsible eldest child who looks after her younger siblings."

"You've been spending far too time with those confounded jokesters," Hermione sniffed, but she couldn't keep a straight face for more than a moment.

"What, you mean your best friend's brothers? Shall I tell them you think so badly about them?"

"Your father is my best friend, darling," Hermione answered airily. "And he should be home soon, so finish getting ready."

Minerva ducked back into the hall, and Hermione heard her thunder back up the stairs, wondering how one small ten-year-old could make so much noise. She smiled at the butterfly outside and nearly jumped right from her skin when a fervent pair of human eyes stared back from just over the window ledge.

She stood and opened the window, frightening the butterfly off.

"Draco? What are you doing out there?"

"I need some clothes," he hissed.

"What? Come inside, I—"

"I can't come inside. I can't let the children see me like this. Just bring me my trousers and a shirt, _please_."

Hermione took an indulgent moment to reflect on how much complete and total memory loss due to massive head trauma had changed her husband—before he'd been her husband—for the better. The Draco Malfoy she'd known in school couldn't even spell the word "please."

"What are you smirking at?" he demanded.

"Nothing, love."

"I should never have taught you how to do that. It's unnerving. You do it far too much, and not at all properly."

Hermione smirked more, and her husband glared.

"Trousers. Now."

"Are you ordering me, Mr Man of the House?"

"I'm begging you. Please."

Hermione craned her neck, but Draco had evidently flattened himself against the wall, so all she could see were his bare shoulders.

"You're not naked, are you?"

"Worse."

"What happened to your clothes?"

"I'm not explaining a bloody thing to you until you bring me a pair of pants like a decent human being caring about the welfare of her suffering husband."

Oh, this sounded interesting.

"Where's your wand?"

He glared pointedly.

With a resigned sigh, Hermione Summoned a pair of trousers. She heard Damien shout "Whoa!" and dive to the floor in the upstairs hall.

"Sorry!" she called, catching the zooming garment. "What were you doing that close to our bedroom door, anyway?"

"Um…nothing?"

"I sure hope it's nothing, for your sake!"

"Yes, Mum!"

Hermione shook her head and left through the back door. And then she stopped.

Standing with his back pressed firmly against the stone of the house was her husband, wearing nothing except a very, very tight pair of black leather trousers. He looked miserable. For the sake of assessing her poor husband's predicament, she took several moments to analyze the trousers. She concluded that they were indeed amazingly tight, and that she needed a view of his arse to complete her analysis. For the time being, however, the pronounced bulge in the front and the angles of his narrow hips sufficed.

"Stop smirking!" he said before her expression could even change from shocked to amused.

"What in the name of Merlin's Toyota happened to you?"

"Merlin's what?"

"Toyota. It's a brand name of car."

"Why would Merlin have a car?"

"How should I know? Just answer the question. I thought you were at a meeting to discuss the next series of radio ads?"

"I was. But as we left, a couple of Weasley's thugs ambushed me."

"Not Fred and George? I can't believe that they would—"

"No, not them. They quite liked my last little publicity stunt."

"Calling Percy a grade A wanker? Honestly, I know you have more creativity than that; that's why you went into the business of political campaigning. I—"

"No, not the grade A wanker one. And are you going to give me my trousers on not?"

"Not until you finish your story."

"The neighbors—"

"Oh, tsk, always worrying what the neighbors will say. It's right Dursleyish of you."

"Right what?"

"Never mind. So Percy sent two thugs after you? For doing your job? I can't believe that he'd have the nerve."

"Well, you know how he is about bringing up nineteen-ninety-five with him. He thinks that because he apologized to his family, everything should be fine and dandy."

"It was a long time ago. Is it really fair to use it against him in the campaign?"

"It's all how the game is played, love. And I wouldn't have done if his campaign manager hadn't brought Neville's family into it." Draco's eyes widened. "Er, I mean—"

"What do you mean, brought Neville's family into it? You didn't tell me that! When did this happen? Why didn't you say anything? That _slimeball_! I'll AK him myself. And I'd forgiven the little—"

"Hermione, love, calm down. You get scary when you're mad. I took care of it, don't worry."

"Don't worry? You tell me don't worry? Why? Because my big, strong husband has taken care of everything? Because I don't need to worry my pretty, little head?"

"Darling—" Draco started to move forward, but stopped when a bit of flame shot from his arse. He planted himself firmly against the wall again.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"No, that was definitely something. Why is your arse on fire?"

"It's not on fire."

"That was definitely fire that I saw."

"There was no fire."

"Draco?"

"Hermione, please—er, yes, dear." Eying the tip of her wand warily, Draco left the wall and turned.

Stamped across his arse in (literally) flaming letters stood the red word "HOT."

Hermione nearly dropped her wand when she started to laugh. But she needed it to Summon her camera.

"No! Oh no! You are not taking a picture of this! I—" _flash_ "—you evil, little—" _flash_ "—I will never—" _flash, flash_ "HERMIONE!"

"Mum? Dad? What's going on?"

Draco leapt madly to hide behind a rubbish bin as Mercutio pressed his small face against the window screen.

"Nothing at all, darling. Go back upstairs. Daddy and I will be inside in just a moment."

"But—"

"Now, Mercutio."

"Fine."

She listened for his steps on the stairs before smirking openly at Draco's eyes, just peeking over the rubbish bin.

"I hate you," he told her.

She tossed his trousers to him. "Where's your wand, then?"

"I'll get it back by owl post."

"You're not going to go to the Aurors?"

"Are you bloody mad?"

"Some people think so."

"Oh, fuck."

"What?"

"They won't come off."

"What do you mean?"

"It's some kind of sticking charm. Fuck."

"Well, pull your trousers on over, then we can at least go up to the bedroom like civilized people."

"We could have done an age ago if you'd just given them to me."

And so it was that Draco hurried up to their bedroom, ignoring his children's questions about his smoking arse.


End file.
